


Marrying Up

by avantegarda



Series: It's the New World, Darling-A 19th-20th Century AU [18]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Scotland, This takes place sometime during Northbound, rated t for very vague mentions of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 18:15:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18722347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avantegarda/pseuds/avantegarda
Summary: In-laws are never easy, particularly when one has this many of them. In which Maglor's wife attempts to assimilate into her strange new family.





	Marrying Up

**Author's Note:**

> I have another multi-chapter thing I am in the middle of and absolutely intend to finish, but I had this idea after two glasses of wine last night so this is what you are getting right now.
> 
> This also seems like a good time to give a bit shout-out to everyone who has indulged me by following this silly series--you guys are lovely! Have some fluff.

_Glen Formenos, Scotland_

_1892_

 

“It’s just recently occurred to me,” remarked Andril Gates (née Hope), shortly after returning from her honeymoon, “that, fond as I am of them, I do not entirely fit in with your family.”

Her new husband, Maglor Gates (a musician of some little renown) glanced up from the harpsichord with surprise in his expression. “Goodness, Annie, whyever would you say that?”

“Well, my dear, I’ve hardly spent any time with them on my own, and when I do things tend to get...awkward. I once tried to have a friendly chat with your father, and he spent half the time lecturing me about politics and the other half staring at me like he thought I would sprout horns any minute.”

“My father, while a good man, is a famously odd chap. You musn’t assume it means you don’t belong in this family.”

“The rest of your family is just as odd as he is! But of course you wouldn’t notice, you’re just the same.”

“ _Odd,_ am I?” Maglor said primly. “And what makes you say that, exactly?”

Annie let out a snort of laughter. “Ach, are you honestly asking me that? Darling, you cook pancakes at midnight, you wrote a song about stubbing your toe on the hearth, and you sing to me in Italian while we’re making love.”

Maglor looked wounded. “I thought you _liked_ that.”

“Of course I like it, that’s not the point. The point is that you’re so used to your family that you may not entirely realize how difficult it can be for someone on the outside to try and become one of you.”

He got up from the harpsichord, gently taking Annie’s hand in his. “I do understand, really. And I know my father and brothers like you a great deal. But we’re an insular clan, as I believe I’ve mentioned, and I expect that’s the cause of any awkwardness. Spending most of our lives socializing only with ourselves and our cousins does tend to have that result.”

“So what do you recommend I do?”

“You must simply force them into becoming your friends. Spend as much time with them as possible— _without_ my charming self there as a buffer. Maedhros and the twins adore you already, though it might take a bit more effort with Father and the middle three. Nonetheless, I have absolute faith in you.” Maglor leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Now, are you in the mood for some late-night pancakes?”

He was being very sweet, but Annie had a nasty feeling his confidence was misplaced.

 

Maedhros, Annie was not at all worried about. They’d gotten things squared away mere hours after she and Maglor had announced their engagement. Maedhros had come to her cottage, sat stiffly in her armchair that was far too small for him, and pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket.

“Miss Hope,” he’d said solemnly. “I have several very important questions to ask you before you marry my brother.”

“And you wrote them down? How organized of you.”

Maedhros frowned at her, though there was a twinkle in his eye. “This is serious business, Miss Hope. Question the first: are you a fortune-hunter?”

“Certainly not. If I was, I’d be marrying you, seeing as you’re the eldest.”

“Quite so. Question the second: Have you any criminal background?”

“I once swiped a sweet from a street cart, but I’ve never done anything so fascinating as pulling a pistol on my half-brother in Trafalgar Square.”

“You’re lucky it’s me you made that joke in front of, and not my father. Question the third: are you planning to abandon Maglor and run away to Paris to be an artist?”

“If I were going to run away to Paris, wouldn’t it be wiser to take Maglor with me? He speaks much better French than I do.”

“Hmm.” Maedhros re-folded the paper and placed it back in his pocket. “All right then, Miss Hope. You’ve answered well. But I’ll be keeping an eye on you, don’t you forget.”

“I honestly cannot tell if you are being serious or not.”

“I’ll be serious now, then.” Maedhros leaned forward, looking at her intently. “Miss Hope, I am very protective of all my brothers, but Maglor in particular. If you tell anyone this I will deny it, but he is my favorite. I don’t doubt that he’s made the right choice in you, but I want to be certain.”

“That makes perfect sense. Does it help to know that I adore your brother and will do my absolute best to be a good wife to him?”

Maedhros stood, then, and shook her hand firmly. “It does. And it is a great comfort to me that you do not speak French.”

That, it turned out, was all that needed to be said for their friendship to be established. Of all her new brothers-in-law, Maedhros was the one who felt most like her actual brother.

 

It wasn’t as though Annie disliked dogs. Half the families in the village had collies, and they were pleasant enough creatures. Huan, though, was an Irish wolfhound the size of a pony with a tendency to put his paws on people’s shoulders and nearly lick their faces off, and Annie was not sure she would ever get used to him. Or, indeed, to his owner. Celegorm had a tendency to show up at odd times, covered in mud and blood, demanding food and making rude remarks. And so when he came to her clinic, dripping blood from a gash on his arm and with Huan in tow, Annie braced herself for chaos.

“Quite a cut you’ve got there,” she said, as Celegorm flopped dramatically onto the cot in the middle of the room. “Been wrestling tigers?”

“Something like that. Huan, don’t eat those herbs, they’re probably poison.”

“Well, it’ll need stitches. I’ll pour you a drink to take the edge off the pain.”

“Oh, I can deal with pain. Do you see how my nose is a bit crooked? I broke it in a fight with a bear and didn’t blink an eye.”

“There aren’t any bears in Britain.”

“All right, so I broke it when I crashed my bicycle into a tree when I was fourteen, but please don’t tell the pretty barmaid at MacGillavry’s that. She thinks I’m terribly brave.”

Annie rolled her eyes and set to work, cleaning the wound and setting to work on the stitches. True to his word, Celegorm barely flinched, but kept up a stream of chatter throughout.

“So, I hear you two are finally acquiring your own marital abode? Good, it’ll be pleasant to have some quiet at night again. Not to be crude, sister dear, but overhearing you two is like attending the world’s most embarrassing opera.”

Annie flushed, scowling at him as she pulled on the thread unnecessarily hard. “Well, then I’m more than happy to be getting out of your way.”

“Now, now, no need to be cross. I’m very pleased for you. I suppose I’m just getting used to the idea of having a sister-in-law. And you’re not exactly the sort I expected.”

“Yes, yes, I know. You expected me to be a Russian ballerina or some such. Every single one of you has told me this already.”

“Actually I’m quite pleased you’re not a Russian ballerina. The last one was far too skinny and had no sense of humor whatsoever. You’re quite an improvement... _ouch,_ bloody _hell!”_

At the sound of his master’s pain, Huan whimpered, rubbing his shaggy head against Annie’s hip. She absentmindedly scratched him behind the ears, and the dog let out a growl of contentment and licked her hand.

“Besides the dog likes you, anyway,” Celegorm said through gritted teeth. “That’s worth something.”

Annie, realizing this was high praise, smiled and said nothing.

 

Annie’s efforts to befriend Caranthir did not seem to be paying off at all. When the middle brother was in a fairly good mood he was willing to at least talk to her, but generally in her presence he would turn red and mutter before stomping off. Maglor had assured her that despite his hot temper and biting wit, Caranthir was in fact painfully shy, and there was no need for her to worry. Still, Annie had hopes that she would eventually be able to manage one entire conversation with him.

She managed to corner him on a morning just before she and Maglor moved out of the castle, finding him sitting next to the faintly glowing fireplace in the freezing sitting room. There was something in his lap that he seemed to be working on, though when he heard Annie enter he jumped slightly and hid it behind his back. “Ah! Ahem, hello, Miss H...Annie.”

“Good morning, Caranthir.” Annie peered behind him, determined to discover anything at all that might get him to talk to her. “I say, are you knitting?”

Caranthir’s face grew red, though his tone was defiant. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

“Interesting. Do you know, when I was a little girl in the orphanage, I had a scarf that I would only knit when I was angry? I would sit on my bunk and knit until I had calmed down. By the time I left the orphanage it was about seven feet long and had about twenty colors of yarn in it. I think I still have it, somewhere.”

Her brother-in-law grinned, his blush fading somewhat. “I used to do that when I was younger as well. Granddad says that Granny Miriel was just the same. It’s comforting, isn’t it, to do something with one’s hands?”

“Oh, certainly.” Annie sat down on the sofa beside him, pulling out her own workbag. “How would you feel about sitting next to each other and knitting for the next few hours and not saying a single word to each other?”

“You’ve just summed up my ideal afternoon. Close the door, though, we don’t want any of the other idiots coming in here and trying to start a conversation.”

There were a few minutes of contented silence, filled with nothing but the sound of clicking needles, before Caranthir spoke up again.

“I say,” he said, setting down his knitting. “Are you...are you settling in all right? I mean…” He seemed to cast about helplessly for the words. “Are we being all right to you?”

“Why, yes,” Annie said, smiling broadly and resisting the urge to pat him on the head. “You’re being absolutely lovely.”

 

Curufin was fond of asking extremely difficult questions. Nor did it seem that he was ever satisfied by Annie’s answers.

“What will you do,” he asked her, apropos of nothing, while she was up at the castle one afternoon, “when our exile from London is ended and we head back south? Are you expecting Maglor will stay up in Scotland with you for the rest of his life? Or are you going to give up nursing and come to London?”

“Er...well, we haven’t discussed it in any great detail, but I rather imagine we’ll try to divide our time between London and Scotland…”

“I’d discuss it sooner rather than later, if I were you. You wouldn’t like to wake up one morning and find yourself and your husband on completely different sides of Hadrian’s Wall.” Curufin fiddled with the unidentifiable clockwork device on his lap for a moment, before looking back up at Annie. “What do you suppose became of your real parents, anyway?”

Annie looked desperately at the sitting room door, silently begging Maglor to return from the kitchen as quickly as possible. “Well...I can’t say I’ve given it much thought.”

“Really? Abandoned at an orphanage when you were a baby and you’ve never once thought about your mum and dad? I find that a bit hard to believe.”

“I expect they were poor, then. Or my mum was on her own. It happens, you know.”

“Indeed it does.” Curufin eyed her critically. “I imagine they would be quite proud of you, marrying so well. Certainly a step up from Aberdeen. Though you must have a strong stomach, to cope with being married to my brother. What on earth do you see in him, anyway?”

Thoroughly irritated by this point, and with a spark of an idea, Annie leaned over and whispered quickly in her brother-in-law’s ear.

It was incredibly gratifying to see how red Curufin’s cheeks grew, and the horrified expression on his face as he clapped his hands over his ears. “Bloody hell, Annie, I did _not_ want to know that!”

“You asked,” Annie replied with a smirk. “More tea?”

(Curufin’s questions, after that, became much less probing)

 

“Amrod, will you hand me the duster, please?”

“I’m not Amrod, I’m Amras.”

“Apologies. Amras, will you hand me the duster, please?”

“He’s only joking. That is Amrod, but he thinks he’s being clever.”

“Don’t listen to him, _I’m_ Amras, he’s just trying to fool you because you’re new…”

“Amrod, you’re such an idiot, you forget which one _you_ are half the time...ouch, don’t pinch me!”

“All right, _enough,”_ Annie snapped. “ _You_ are Amras because you have slightly lighter hair and more freckles and are incapable of standing still for more than three seconds. _You_ are Amrod because you have slightly darker hair and stare at the ceiling with your mouth open when you get distracted. And frankly at this point I don’t _care_ which one of you is which, because I am here on a Saturday out of the goodness of my own heart helping you clean this horrid castle, and one of you needs to _hand me the bloody duster.”_

Amrod, shamefaced, handed her the duster in question. “Sorry, Annie. Only teasing.” His face brightened. “But say, you can tell us apart! That’s impressive. Dad says Mum couldn’t tell us apart until we were two.”

“I am almost certain your father is joking about that. And don’t flatter yourselves, you’re not nearly as alike as you pretend to be.”

Annie was surprised, shortly after saying this, to find herself enveloped in a tight hug from both sides.

 

“Dinner is ready, Mr. Gates.”

Fëanor barely glanced up as Annie stood hesitantly in the door of his workshop. Sunday night dinners with the rest of the family had become a tradition since her marriage, but it was often difficult to convince her father-in-law to join them before pudding.

“Ah. Thank you, Andril,” Fëanor said gruffly. “I’ll be along shortly, you may tell the boys to begin eating.”

“Of course.” Annie had to resist the urge to curtsey—in Fëanor’s presence she often felt like an awkward little girl. Instead, she took a step inside the room, peering down at the shards of glass and metal littering the table. “What are you working on, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Fëanor blinked, before gesturing for her to come closer. “I can’t say it’ll be of much interest to a young person like yourself, but I am attempting to make an improved version of the scientific microscope. The ones currently in use provide far from a perfect visual.”

“I happen to find that extremely interesting,” Annie said. “I am a nurse, after all. Imagine, if we could have a magnifying device that could see right into a person’s very flesh, how much good we could do! Would you mind terribly letting me have a look at what you’re doing? I won’t move anything, but I am quite curious.”

“I suppose not. Keep your hand away from that glass cutter, it’s quite sharp. Now, the thing to really be considered is the _angling_ of the glass…”

It wasn’t until some time later that Annie smelled roast meat from upstairs and realized, with a start, that they had already missed half of dinner.

“My goodness, Mr. Gates, we had better head upstairs if we want there to be any food left for us,” she said hurriedly, wiping her hands on her skirt. “Thank you very much for showing me your work, though, it’s quite fascinating.”

“No trouble. As I’m sure my sons have told you, I’m always pleased to ramble on for hours about my work to anyone who shows interest.”

“Maglor is precisely the same when talking about his music. But I don’t mind, you know. I always enjoy a chance to learn something new.”

“Indeed.” Fëanor looked at her appreciatively. “I say, Annie, hadn’t you better start calling me Dad instead of Mr. Gates? I know for a fact my wife has asked you to call her Mum, and I should hate to be left out.”

Annie struggled to keep from blushing, a grin spreading across her face. “Yes, certainly, Mr…Dad.”

 

“What did I tell you?” Maglor said, after Annie had giddily recounted her conversation with his father. “My family adores you. You never had a thing to worry about, not at all.”

“Oh, I suppose not,” said Annie with a sigh, leaning into his arms contentedly. “Though it is nice to have some reassurance. Now all I’ve got to worry about is making sure _you_ still adore me, as I know how flighty you artistic types can be. I suppose I can buy some silk stockings and learn the can-can.”

“As incredibly appealing as that idea is, I can’t say it’s strictly necessary. I don’t think there’s anything you could possibly do that would make me fall out of love with you. Unless you did something truly horrendous, like burning my violin or asking me to cut my hair.”

“I _have_ been thinking that you would look much better if your hair was about six inches shorter...no, no, don’t you dare start tickling me, I was _joking!_ Your hair is fine and your violin is safe and your family is absolutely lovely, I swear.”

“Correct answers, one and all.” Maglor lifted her chin with a finger, a lascivious glint in his eyes. “Shall we head to bed, my love? I’ve had a certain Italian love song stuck in my head all day…”

“Just as I’ve said before: you are a _very_ odd man.”

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if you folks have noticed this, but "sensible person falls for eccentric dork" is my favorite trope of all time and I will absolutely never stop using it. 
> 
> Also, I think we can agree that Maglor definitely was the one who married up in this relationship.


End file.
